


Honey Badger

by milk_or_vodka



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Bad Writing, Boys Kissing, First Kiss, Kissing, Light Pining, M/M, Making Out, Short, Stream of Consciousness, TOO MANY COMMAS, Vague Descriptions of Honey Badgers, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22570471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milk_or_vodka/pseuds/milk_or_vodka
Summary: Minutes ago they were only daydreaming. Until suddenly Mike was stammering words about kissing, and necking, and going all the way. And his hand had grasped Will’s tan knee, and he had asked, Have you ever?
Relationships: Will Byers/Mike Wheeler
Comments: 13
Kudos: 98





	Honey Badger

The beer is already forgotten, toppled over and foaming on the Byers’ carpet. Will can taste the alcohol in Mike’s shaky breath. Inches from his face, Mike is up-close, red and trembling. Nervous. His lip darts out of his mouth quickly and Will’s eyes involuntarily follow the motion.

Minutes ago they were only daydreaming. Mike, with his pale knees knocking into Will’s, rambling on from one subject to the next. Will half-listening, half-watching the dull animal documentary on T.V. Until suddenly Mike was stammering words about kissing, and necking, and  _ going all the way _ . And his hand had grasped Will’s tan knee, and he had asked,  _ Have you ever? _

_ Have you ever? _

Will’s eyes trace over Mike. The heated blush. The bitten lip. The fluttering eyes. His eyes sketch and remember, follow the sharp angles of his face, the molded cheekbones and soft valleys. He’s memorizing every detail of what Mike looks like up-close, because someday  — probably soon after this — Mike Wheeler will break his heart. And they will go from best friends to total strangers. Staring at each other from afar, spitting the other’s name like a curse. Will can memorize this look now and hold it close for the lonely nights to come. Make a drawing of it. A painting, even. Hang it in a gallery one day and say,  _ This boy broke my heart when I was only sixteen.  _

A hand snakes its way up to Will’s jaw, and he shudders. The touch is delicious. Even Mike knows it. He brings his other hand to Will’s hipbone, rubs experimentally, a quiet test. Will’s eyes lid, suddenly heavy. A soft, “Okay,” escapes Mike, the word more for himself than for Will. Then, gently, he presses his lips against Will’s.

Will’s breath hitches. A few moments pass where both are too afraid to move. But Will, hungry, presses back, the taste of his lips teasing and persuasive. A low groan rips from Mike. His hand tightens on Will’s waist, the other fisting his hair. The taste of alcohol resurfaces, and instead of grimacing, like Will did when he first downed a beer, he sighs. Sighs into Mike’s mouth, like it’s home.

A few seconds and then Mike’s pulling back again, practically gasping for air. Will, who had gripped Mike’s sweater during the kiss, withdraws his hands, hot. A little embarrassed. But Mike’s hands cover Will’s. Guide them back to his sweater, his shoulders. Will’s eyes widen, and that’s when he looks up into Mike’s. Mike’s eyes are dark, pupils swallowing the dark brown of his iris. But more than that. Will recognizes how  _ starved  _ he is. It’s blatant in his gaze when he drinks up the sight of Will, eyeing Will’s disheveled hair and shiny, reddened lips. Will can see it clearly, and that thought of hunger mixes with the distant talk of the T.V.  _ He looks like the honey badger,  _ Will thinks. Yes, exactly. Famished and lonely and frantic like the honey badger.

His next thoughts are interrupted by the refined brush of Mike’s lips. Soft again, hesitant, like at any moment this could end. Will isn’t as polite. Again his lips crash back into Mike’s. Harshly. Mike makes a choked sound, then moves forward. Slowly, animal-like. A predator cornering his prey.

Will’s back meets the carpet, body submerged in the angel dust glow of the television set. Mike’s lips still on his, he can feel all of Mike. The fibres of his sweater, his smooth jeans, the frizz of his hair and the pressing of his excitement. The carpet scratches the back of his neck. He can still smell alcohol. 

A thought enters Will’s head, as he adjusts his lips again, warming at the electric tingle it produces. He thinks about this, about kissing and this full-body blush feeling. That maybe Mike likes it as much. Yearns for it too. He saw it, he feels it. They’re warm together. Full together. Maybe tomorrow Mike will remain his friend. And the day after that. And forever. One day he’ll still make a drawing or a painting of the first time he saw Mike so up-close, and it will still hang in a gallery, but this time he will say,  _ This is the only boy I’ve ever loved. _

An obnoxious ringing tears through their quiet gasps, and instinctively Mike rolls off Will. Will shoots up and spots the culprit —  the telephone. Mike avoids Will’s eyes, says, “You should — ”

“I should — ” Will begins, stopping when he cuts off Mike. He gives an apologetic glance, but Mike’s glazed eyes fix themselves on the T.V. “Sorry, that could be my mom…” Mike shrugs.

Will rises awkwardly, thoroughly humiliated. He shuffles to the phone, adjusting his pants along the way. Cuts the ring off. His mother’s voice crackles through the line. His thoughts drift from her quickly, repeating  _ uh-huh  _ to everything she says. Will watches Mike as he settles onto the couch, conspicuously grabbing hold of a pillow for his lap. His eyes remain on the television, even though Will  _ knows  _ he must be able to feel his stare.

His mom interrupts his thoughts.  _ Love you, _ and  _ see you soon _ , and  _ good night. _ Three goodbyes for a son like him. A son who drinks beer he doesn’t like and kisses boys he does. Always wanting the wrong things and hating the right ones. Will hangs up without a goodbye, partially angry at her, but mostly guilty.

The call is over too quickly. He suddenly has no choice but to walk back to the couch, sit uncomfortably far from Mike. Will spares a questioning glance his way. Mike ignores him, watches instead a wild honey badger roam the land as a droning voice narrates its actions. “Who was it?” Mike asks, still avoiding eye contact.

“Just my mom,” Will answers, quick. He, too, is staring at the honey badger. It prowls across the screen, baring its teeth. Looks directly at Will. Mocking him. The television’s glow is less ethereal now. It can barely fight off the darkness of the living room. Even Mike’s face is half-submerged in shadows. Black shapes creep along the contours of his head, and the sight makes Will recall how Mike had looked just minutes ago: honest and loving and tender. Bright, entirely unlike the mindless, faux nonchalant look Mike was giving now. 

  
Will decides he will draw a charcoal portrait of Mike Wheeler. It will one day hang in a gallery, and when people approach Will he will say,  _ This is the boy I’ve always loved. This is the boy who broke my heart. _

**Author's Note:**

> Aaagghhh I haven't written anything in FOREVER. I am super rusty. I hope this wasn't too lame? Oh, and a quick word of advice-- DON'T look up what a honey badger's teeth look like. Not if you want to sleep, at least.
> 
> But seriously, thank you for reading! I'm surprised you made it out of this mess alive.


End file.
